


Unbreakable Bonds

by AnnetheCatDetective



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Bisexual Quentin Coldwater, Depressed Eliot Waugh, Depressed Quentin Coldwater, Eliot Waugh's Canonically Huge Dick, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gentle Dom Eliot Waugh, Hurt Eliot Waugh, Hurt Quentin Coldwater, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Memory Alteration, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Sub Quentin Coldwater, Telepathic Bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:29:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24222094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnetheCatDetective/pseuds/AnnetheCatDetective
Summary: Eliot Waugh has been maybe a little bit obsessed with the concept of soulmates ever since he discovered they were a real thing. He's also come to accept that he doesn't get one-- which fits the general pattern where his life is concerned. He's not the kind of boy anyone loves forever. He tells himself that's fine, because he's not the kind of boy who goes around falling in love with other people, either.Then Quentin Coldwater makes a fool and a liar out of him by getting expelled, but Quentin has a soulmate, somewhere. And Eliot doesn't.Right?
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 19
Kudos: 148
Collections: Hurt Comfort Exchange 2020





	1. Finding You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [akingnotaprincess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/akingnotaprincess/gifts).



> I got into the Magicians HARD since signing up for this exchange, and I wound up being so taken by this prompt and general list of likes that... here I am writing an additional treat fic. I couldn't resist combining the Magicians prompt for Eliot seducing an expelled Quentin with the general requests for soulmate AU and some of the kinks.

Soulmates were a tricky thing. Most people, if they had one, lived and died without knowing it. You couldn’t see the marks if you weren’t, well, magic.

Eliot had always liked the idea of a soulmate. Even before Brakebills, before learning it was all real, he’d spent his life longing for… well, for one other person who would love him his whole life long. His family didn’t love him. They might have once protested to love some imaginary version of him, which they had built up for themselves. He doesn’t think they even love that, now. Boys came and went, which was fun, but…

But from the moment he learned a soulmate was a real thing, he kept checking for the mark of one. He’d practically memorized the book on deciphering soulmarks-- _had_ memorized enough of it. He’d seen them show up on others, but after a year of not finding one, of using mirrors to check his back, of going over himself so carefully, even imploring Margo to check his blind spots… after a year of being told he was a good time, once, fun for a spin but exhausting to try to keep up with, he gave up. People weren't _wrong_ , that's what he is. _For a good time call_ , not _forever_. There's nothing real in him to love, he's artifice, he's a puffball in a nice wardrobe, he's a hollow shell and sometimes a dark shadow slips in and reminds him of all the things he's _not_ , and why should he get to have a soulmate just because it's what he always wanted? He's never gotten what he's wanted-- the fact that he gets Brakebills is the fucking outlier of all time. So really, he's ahead. He can't complain about not having a soulmate when there's something rotten sitting on his soul.

It’s still fun to analyze others. Enough people know if they develop their mark at Brakebills they can go to Eliot to learn what it means. He’s still in love with love, though he pretends at cynicism. It’s just… not for him. If he couldn’t even find a soulmate at Brakebills, where magic was real, what else was out there for him?

He has Margo, which is like having a soulmate that you choose for yourself, if not in any way a romantic one. She’s still someone who will love him at his worst. It eases the sting. And she knows just what it is to be an artifice of your own creation, and just what it takes to fight the darkness off for another night. She's his rock.

Quentin Coldwater gets his soulmark his very first day.

“You’ll want to hear this.” Margo says, steering Quentin over and setting him down in front of Eliot, where he has been focused on lounging attractively on the sofa of the Physical kids’ cottage, holding a book he was not quite studying from. But, attractively. “Tell him what you told me.”

“Just that when I left here yesterday I had a weird magic tattoo. Is this, like, a prank? Is it like a hazing thing? Cast a spell and put a really lame tattoo on the new guy before he learns how to get it off? Wait, why are you looking at me like that?”

“You met your soulmate.” Eliot says, and does not bother trying to not stare, until he catches the way Margo is looking at him, and he straightens up and aims for cool. He thinks he ought to be jealous, but he isn't, not at all. Sometimes he's jealous, and Quentin got his so _quickly_ , and yet all Eliot feels is excited. Almost electric, at the thought of exploring this for him. “Or at least you saw them, an actual introduction is not required, more a first sight thing. Apparently a _really lame_ soulmate, if it’s a really lame mark. I mean, I could tell you about what different kinds of marks mean…”

He tries to say it like he doesn't care, dangles it there as bait. He desperately wants to, though, more than usual. He wants to see it or maybe touch it, just to see how Quentin reacts. He's touched other people's, while analyzing them-- some people don't react at all, or don't react like it's any different from touching them anywhere else. Some people jump, or squirm, or blush. Quentin, he can't help but think, would blush _adorably_.

“Wait, yesterday? Do you know how many people I saw for the first time yesterday? Because I don’t, but it’s a lot! Okay, yeah, tell me what it means. You’re not shitting me, this is real?”

“Mm-hm. Only a magician can see the marks. There are spells you can cast to try and learn more, but nothing’s really foolproof. If you haven’t met your soulmate yet, for example, you can cast a spell on an hourglass, to find out when you’ll meet them, but carrying the hourglass around is a whole thing-- it’s easier to do a countdown clock, but totally unreliable.”

“You just say that because yours kept resetting to different times and then it broke.” Margo says.

“I am a libertine and can’t be tied down.” He shrugs. “The shape of the mark tells you something about your soulmate. The location says something about you. So let’s see it…”

“I’m not taking off my shirt. It’s on my chest, it’s like a bear.”

“Vague much, Coldwater?” Margo rolls her eyes. 

“A bear could be a heraldic symbol indicating something about your soulmate’s family lineage or place of origin. A bear could mean someone protective, indicating strength coupled with nurturing, as in a mother grizzly. The bear could be a wise warrior king, or it could just mean your soulmate is a big, hairy man.”

Quentin laughs and shakes his head. “Not normally my type, but I won’t rule anything out. Um, what if it’s more like a… teddy bear?”

“Well, then that’s completely different.” Eliot sighs, mentally flipping the page from animal to children’s toy. “A teddy bear? Um… yeah. So your soulmate could be playful, or they could be someone who expresses their feelings through touch… or they could just be-- ugh-- _innocent_. God help you. Or just the human equivalent of a comfort object, someone who makes you feel safe. Of course sometimes it’s just a personal association thing, but it's rarely fully literal.”

“So your soulmate's probably not out there carrying a literal teddy bear around.” Margo says, draping herself across the back of the sofa where Eliot can easily reach up and hold onto her. "But it's all highly flexible, so don't let Professor Waugh here get into your head"

“Cool. Cool, cool, cool.” And he does blush, some.

“Black and white or color?”

“Oh, uh… there’s some color? Is that important?”

“It means you both saw each other. Black and white is sort of a… two ships passing in the night, you came into some kind of contact but you didn’t both notice each other. Color indicates some mutual acknowledgment, however fleeting. Now-- where on your chest is it?” He asks, and he kind of doesn’t want to, because a chill down his spine has him feeling like he already knows. 

“Um, over my heart? That’s good, right?”

“Is it really over your heart, or is it over the left side of your chest? Because my answer is very different.” He says carefully, but Quentin just looks at him like he doesn’t understand. “Show me.”

Quentin does, taps his chest where the bear must be.

“Okay, is that _bad_?” His eyes go wide.

“Well… Look, it doesn’t mean you _will_ die for love. It just means you _would_ die for love. Totally important distinction.”

“Sorry.” Margo says, and does not sound it. Eliot could chide her for being mean-- though he's normally more likely to encourage it-- but she's playing with his hair, and he can never argue with her when she plays with his hair. He can never argue with anyone who plays with his hair, and he barely has any defenses against someone who lets him play with theirs.

“Oh, is that all?”

“Most people don’t like to hear it.”

“Well… I’d rather be someone who would die for love than someone who would die for nothing, I guess.” He shrugs. “If I’m going to die, it might as well be for something. Someone.”

“Good attitude.” Eliot nods, though he’s not sure it is, not the way Quentin says it. “Good luck finding your teddy bear.”

“Innocent.” Quentin mutters, mostly to himself. “ _Maybe_. Maybe not.”

But if Quentin thinks much about soulmates after that, he doesn’t say any more on the subject to Eliot. In the wake of everything else there is to see and learn at Brakebills, he seems to drop the whole idea rather easily. It would be fair to want to play it close to the vest, Eliot supposes, but it would also be fair to focus elsewhere and trust in destiny.

And then…

And then Quentin is gone, and Eliot knows what that means. And he also knows what he has to do.

“You’re really going to find him?” Margo asks.

“Of course I am. I said I would.”

“Yeah, but he doesn’t _remember_ that you said you would.”

“Well… I remember. You don’t have to come.”

“Good, I’m not.” She says, eyebrows climbing. “Look, I’ll cover for you if anyone asks where you are, but… you know you can’t bring him back, right? Like, we just have to let him _go_ , he’s _gone_. History. Or do you just want to fuck him now that he doesn’t know he has a soulmate?”

“Please. I respect the sacred bond.” Eliot places a hand over his heart. Yes, he’d said he would seduce Quentin, and he intends to… well, do a little flirting. Maybe steal a kiss. Or maybe pretend to be a fortune teller and unravel the mysteries of soulmate-hood to him, just a pleasant little encounter with magic, just a brush with the fantastic to keep him going, until he can figure out how to get him home-- back, to Brakebills. Somehow. “I only fuck the unmarked. No matter _how_ attractive.”

“Right, because little Q is just dripping with sex appeal.” Margo snorts. 

“He has a certain naive charm. Look, I’m not asking you to understand, I don’t understand. But magic is important to Q. Like… really important. And he had… potential.”

"I really don't get why this one's so different to you." She sighs, and straightens his tie. "But he's... not un-fun to mess with. And sometimes you need an unwitting accomplice. But if this is going to be a thing, bang it out now and then drop the soulmate bomb on him after. El-- you know... he's not going to be the same guy he was the last time you saw him."

"I know."

"If you find him while he's still adjusting to the memory patch, it might be sad. Hell, it might be sad anyway."

Eliot knows. It's forty days of Quentin's life. Even if everything went right, that leaves a mark on someone. It's not like with his friend, who should have been fine and dandy-- the more that gets taken out of you, the harder it is. The patch takes and your conscious mind accepts it, but your emotions take time to settle, your moods get weird. How could they not? And Quentin, more than anyone Eliot has ever met... Quentin lives and breathes magic. He _needs_ it.

He doesn’t know what’s right, he knows he doesn’t. The last thing he wants is to see Quentin mixed up with the hedge bitches, but what would it take to get Brakebills to reverse a decision? Something on a level beyond what Eliot can envision. He just knows he's going to try... something. He can't tell him magic is real, except how can he not?

He could teach him, on weekends. Hole up somewhere with him and spend weekends showing him magic. Disgusting, that that should be his most attractive option, absolutely disgusting-- weekends are for not thinking about studies at all, weekends are for partying. Weekends are for… 

Weekends are not for playing listen-to-teacher with a soft and wide-eyed boy ingenue. 

What do you even call a boy ingenue? Just ‘naif’? Absolutely no style.

Anyway, he’d be too tempted to take advantage, he thinks. 

He uses a locating spell to find him, after days without Quentin’s presence have him growing antsy, and tracks him down to a cafe, finds him sitting by himself with a book and a very large coffee. He drops down to the chair opposite, taking surreptitious stock of him. Everything he's wearing is grey and pointless, and he's perhaps subdued, but his attention doesn't drift listlessly from the page, he just seems like Quentin.

“Is this seat taken?” He asks, almost as an afterthought, and he extends a hand. “Eliot Waugh. Man about town.”

“Uh-- yeah. I mean no? Um, Quentin. Coldwater. Man drinking coffee. Please, by all means.”

Oh _no_ , he’s cute. He’s, like, actually cute. Okay, that’s not news, he’s always been cute, but he’s just as cute out in the real world, he’d expected him to be different somehow. Most people who lose magic… they’re _sad_. Like a part of them has been ripped out and they’re not whole without it. But Quentin seems… mostly himself. A little greyer, but responsive. He looks so himself now, awkward but with a familiar smile, like he’s happy to see Eliot even if he doesn’t remember him.

“Well, Quentin Coldwater… do you want to see a magic trick?”

Quentin uncurls from himself, slips his bookmark into his book and leans forward just a little, with a real smile. “I would, yeah.”

“Then give me your hand, and I… will tell you something about yourself that I have no way of knowing. Except magic.”

A hesitant moment, a measuring look, and then he does. All _shy_ , too, like he’s… like he’s dying to be flirted with by a handsome and well-dressed man about town. Very interesting. Quentin always used to brush Eliot's flirtations off as a joke-- which, it was, because he has a moral code, even if it's not much of one, and Quentin has a soulmate-- but could he actually be attracted to him? He responds so differently to Eliot-the-stranger.

All right, so… Q’s been away from Brakebills long enough to realize he’s a little hazy on where he’s spent some of his time, and to discover a brand new tattoo he doesn’t totally remember getting, though there’s probably a patch to explain it away. It gives him one easy detail to reveal.

He puts on a show, of course. Pretends he has to focus, trails his fingertips over Quentin’s hand. Hums a little, the whole nine yards. 

“You have… a tattoo. Teddy bear? _Almost_ over your heart.”

“That was incredibly specific.” Quentin laughs, taking his hand back. “But no dice. I mean, points for really committing to a very unlikely fact. Like that would be a weird tattoo to have-- sorry, unless you have a tattoo of a teddy bear almost over _your_ heart.”

Eliot struggles to keep his reaction hidden. His mark is gone? Erasing his memory of meeting his soulmate erased the mark? That can’t be how it works. Someone can’t… un-have a soulmate.

“No, no, um… tattoos, I don’t have any, it’s the one drunken mistake I’ve never made.” He recovers his savoir-faire. “But I got you to let me hold your hand, that’s all the magic _I_ need.”

“Well, I thought I was going to see a real trick.” Quentin leans back, a little bit of a challenge in his voice. Folds his arms across his chest. “Come on, man about town, impress me.”

He absolutely should not, and he knows it, but seeing Quentin again feels _right_ in a way that’s just beginning to hammer home how wrong it was not to see him. So he makes a sugar packet float over to him.

“How’d you do that?” Quentin’s brow furrows as he inspects the packet closely. 

“Ah-ah-ah, a magician never reveals his secrets.”

“I should be able to see how you did that…”

“I can show you more, but I can’t show you here. And… I can tell you something real about yourself. But I can’t tell you here.”

“This is the weirdest fucking pickup line.” He laughs. “Yeah, okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah. If I take you back to my place, either we fuck or you murder me, either way something interesting actually happens to me for the first time in forever. Okay.”

“Do you always sound this chipper when discussing the possibility of strange men murdering you?” He asks, and then it hits him. Quentin’s surviving losing magic without losing his mind because Quentin has always _been_ sad. Grey. A little bit empty. And it hurts to think about, it hurts to think about Quentin sad and grey and empty. To realize that he can bring the sparkle back to his life but it will never, ever, ever, ever, ever fix his brain.

“Well it doesn’t come up often.”

“I can promise not to.”

“Oh, don’t ruin the mystery.”

Eliot lets Quentin take him home, and ponders whether or not he can fuck him now that his soulmark has been erased or if that’s still kind of a serious dick move. He really, really wants to. He wants to not fuck Quentin _over_ more.

Quentin’s place is as depressingly depressed as Eliot might have imagined his sad little life without Brakebills might be. Almost everything is grey, but at least there are spots of color in the form of all his nerd shit, crowded bookshelves and little toys. He owns a full-length mirror, and that’s just upsetting, that a man should own a full-length mirror and still dress the way Quentin dresses. Quentin gets the door locked behind them and Eliot kisses him, the way he may have imagined doing, now and again, kisses him deep and slow, until Quentin is clinging to him and making the most _delightful_ sounds, just… just about as sweet and needy as he ever could have imagined. Not that he imagined it often.

Just, now and again.

“I might be going to hell for this-- oh, no, not the gay part, I got over _that_ when I was, like, ten, that’s a them problem, just-- I definitely have to tell you some things before we go _any_ further.”

“Is it how you did that trick with the sugar packet?” Quentin asks. Because of course he does. He literally cares more about magic than getting laid, bless his nerdy little heart, and he doesn’t even know it’s real magic. “Because I’ve been thinking about how _I’d_ have done it, and you definitely didn’t do it how I would have done it.” 

“Actually, yes. I did real magic. I’m a magician. Not like a Penn and Teller magician, or-- God forbid-- a Criss Angel, more like a… wizard. But please don’t call it that, wizards have like, gross beards. And they’re not real.”

“... Real magic? Magic is real? Wait, why-- why do I _believe_ that? Also, Harry Potter doesn’t have a gross beard.”

“Because you’ve done it. You’ve done real magic. And we’ve met before. And he probably gets one later in life, it’s like a job requirement and it’s disgusting, and that’s why I am a _magician_ and not a wizard.” He cups Quentin’s face, kisses him one more time, somehow both more and less fervent than the kisses they have had. “You began this whole beautiful life, with magic, and then you… When you were expelled from Brakebills--”

“Brakebills?”

“Think Hogwarts for grad students. When you were expelled, they took out all your memories of real magic. They may have given you some fake ones, they won’t feel right when you try and think about them, about what you’ve been doing, who with. You’ll feel empty when you try to remember, but-- oh, God, but you think you feel that way because you’ve been _depressed_ , you think it’s _normal_ , it’s _not_. I mean it is, but not this time! This time, you just… something was taken from you, and I promised I would find you, and give it back.”

“You did? Wait-- were we-- uh… Did I forget, um, making out with you before? Is that why you came for me?”

“Sadly no.” He frowns. “I probably should not have made out with you now, if I’m honest. You used to have a soulmate. But if the bear’s not there, that means somehow taking your memories took that away. So… dick move on my part, but in my defense, you were… really cute back there, and I can resist anything except temptation.”

“This is insane.” Quentin says. “What does any of that mean?”

“Oh. Right. Um-- it’s a lot. And god I want to fuck you, but of course we can’t build a relationship on a foundation of lies. Also we _are_ friends, and so it might get weird. I get that not everyone has casual sex with their friends. Although I think everyone should, unless your friends are bad at sex. But I am very, very good at sex.”

“And you _don’t_ have a soulmate. I assume.”

“Yeah, never. I mean… I’m not the soulmate kind.” He waves a hand, forces a smile. “You know. I’m all right for a good time. More than all right. But you wouldn’t be stealing me away from anyone, no.”

“Okay, well. I guess neither would you. And I really have no idea how to deal with any of this, but I really like how I felt kind of like a person again when you showed up and held my hand and when I thought this was just a weird sexual encounter and not a life-changing magic thing. I mean the magic thing is very cool and the only thing I’ve ever wanted, I’m just not wrapping my brain around it, maybe because my brain feels like it’s been ripped apart, but that’s not new. Or, I didn’t think it was. Just… it usually doesn’t feel like this, until-- until a little later in the year.”

“Fuck, baby, you are making me such a weird mix of sad and horny right now.”

Quentin’s lashes flutter, something brief and un-studied, a pure natural reaction. “You could call me-- you could call me ‘baby’. Some more.”

Eliot bites his lip, hands moving to Quentin’s hips, tugging him close. “Baby.”

They kiss. It’s wrong, but nothing’s ever felt so right. He was made to kiss Quentin Coldwater, that’s a fact that’s becoming increasingly clear. The mystery of what’s happened to Quentin’s soulmate is compelling, yes, but in practical terms, what does it help to worry about that now? What Quentin _needs_ is to feel-- in his words-- like a person again. To feel something real and pleasurable, and maybe sex is a healthier something than booze and drugs. Eliot’s gotten great results with all three, but admittedly there’s a cost. Everything’s got a cost. Sex, though… Quentin gets all the thrill of banging a super hot stranger, but with the safety net that is, Eliot thinks he actually cares about him _so_ much as a person.

Like, way more than intended.

Shit.

They kiss, and begin a hasty and uncoordinated attempt at getting each other a little less dressed-- which on Quentin’s side mostly just involves tugging uselessly at Eliot’s clothes until he has his waistcoat and tie off and his shirt half untucked, and on Eliot’s side does eventually end in getting some buttons undone, and he doesn’t even bother with naked, he just wants to get his godawful grey button up shirt undone and his undershirt pushed _up_ so that he can see if Quentin’s nipples are sensitive or no, which is almost going great except for one little snag that stops him.

“You have a mark.”

“Shit, what? That’s not possible.” Quentin looks down at his chest, where the mark is, but it’s not a bear. It’s two stars, gold and offset from each other at a diagonal, the lower right larger and the higher left smaller. Pretty, really, but Quentin’s in no mood to appreciate it, it seems. “I didn’t have that. Does that mean we can’t have sex, because I’m kind of already-- like if you don’t want to, that’s cool, but I don’t know enough about this soulmate thing to really-- like I’m sure my soulmate won’t mind if I rack up some more experience!”

Eliot searches through his mental library. 

“Barring some deep personal meaning, two stars is… um… wow, this is what you look like under your shirts? Oh, Q, baby. Yeah, this might make me a bad, bad man, but daddy likey.” He shakes his head. “Sorry, so. The fact that it’s gold means this is someone you talked to today, like, for the first time. Or you made eye contact, at least, like… mutual. Um, stars-- stars usually indicate… why isn’t it the bear? What the _fuck_ happened to the bear? Stars-- navigation, wayfinding. Sometimes an association with magic itself.”

“Never Never Land.” Quentin says on a soft sigh, because of course Quentin would. His gaze drifts off past Eliot’s shoulder and then down, where he either focuses on something in the room, or the reflection of Eliot’s ass in his full-length mirror.

Eliot does rather selfishly hope it’s his ass. But they have bigger fish to fry.

“Yeah, I can’t figure out why it… _changed_ . The fact that it’s two stars-- The number might be significant. This is your second mark-- second chance? Second person? Except that’s not how it works, even if your first soulmate died, the mark would still be there, so it has to be connected to your memory wipe, but… And it’s to the left of your heart, which means you’re… too self-sacrificing in love. So… whoever you love is going to be a lucky human, or a very unlucky one, depending. _Presumably_ human.”

“There are options other than human?” He narrows his eyes, meeting Eliot’s again.

“Yes, but it’s usually considered a great tragedy. Well, not for the human, but we have relatively short lifespans. So for whatever fae creature had you for a soulmate, it would be a tragedy. Although it might still be, it depends on whetheryou end up in the position to die for love-- That's what it means, your mark to the left of the heart. It means you _would_. Not that you will, ”

“Huh.” His gaze drifts back down towards maybe-Eliot’s-ass. Given the way he continues tugging ineffectively at his clothes, his mind's somewhere in that direction. “El?”

“Yeah, baby?”

“It-- it means different things, where the mark shows up and what it is?”

“Yeah.”

“What did the bear mean?”

“Oh-- well, it was… I didn’t see it, you told me about it. You said it was more of a teddy bear. So… I don’t know. Big cuddler?”

“What would the three of clubs mean?”

That’s a fucking weird question, but it’s Quentin, so Eliot does his best to roll with it. 

“Probably a tarot thing, it might be… freedom? Adventure? Foresight? Teamwork? Who fucking knows. I can’t keep the lesser arcana straight at the best of times and right now I’m having an ethics argument with my dick. The shape says something about your soulmate, what they mean to you. Hopefully it's adventure and teamwork, and not someone with a gambling problem.”

“What does it mean if your, um, mark is like… on your lower back?”

“Lower back like where you put your hand on someone when you’re escorting them through a doorway, or lower back like a tramp stamp?”

“Like a tramp stamp. Definitely a tramp stamp.”

“Location’s about you. And I know it’s an easy joke to make to say a tramp stamp soulmark means you’re slutty-- and no judgment from these quarters, I’m firmly pro-slutty, I actually own a tee shirt to that effect. Sorry, getting off track, it actually does indicate someone strongly sexual, probably even sexually dominating--” He says, and it does not escape him the way that Quentin shivers in his arms at ‘sexually dominating’, which is a point in favor of his dick in Eliot's Dick v Ethics. “But that you’re very emotionally attuned to your lover’s needs, very, uh, giving. Why?”

“Does it mean something if it’s purple?”

“ _Purple_? Um, yeah, I guess-- not purple specifically, color-- sorry, what, why?”

“Because yours is purple.”

Eliot cannot deal with this. He really can’t.

“Can you give me a minute?” He asks. Quentin nods, and so Eliot digs out his phone, calls Margo, and drifts towards the corner for something approaching privacy. In an apartment this size it’s all mock-privacy anyway. “Bambi, what the fuck?”

“You’re going to have to be so much more specific.” She says, in a blase drawl he normally adores. “Did you find Coldwater? Is it bad? Honey, I tried to tell you--”

“No, he’s weirdly fine under the circumstances and I’m trying not to overthink that. When you were helping me pick out my seduction outfit today, did I have a fucking tramp stamp?”

“You’ve had it for, like, a month, yes, and it’s hideous. Like, you’re lucky you’re a top hideous, because if that was any man’s first impression of you, you would never have sex again.”

“A _month_?”

“As far as I know-- wait, was that not just a mistake you made while super drunk or super high?”

“Margo! We could be discussing my having a soulmate, so please think very carefully--”

“It’s got to be a tattoo.” She cuts him off. “A _bad_ tattoo. You have to have gotten it about a month ago, because the first time I saw it it was colorful, and this morning it was faded out.”

“Faded like a faded purple?”

“Faded like _grey_. Well not like grey-grey, but like, you know. Faded tattoo grey? Not faded like dead soulmate faded. I don't know, you know I hate this stuff. I'm the last person on earth you should be asking for soulmate advice from.” She says-- and she's not wrong. She doesn't want to ever define herself by someone else.

“Tattoos don’t fade in a _month_. I mean they can’t, can they? It wouldn’t be worth it.” But ‘about a month’... He moves back over to the mirror, cranes his neck and tugs his waistband down. In delicate gold letters, beneath the three of clubs, just above the crack of his ass, it says ‘TADA’. Which he thinks would actually be hilarious if he _was_ more of a bottom, but the three of clubs would still be weird.

He might have chosen ‘TADA’, that feels more like a him thing than a soulmate thing, he would never have told a tattoo artist to give him the three of clubs. And he’d have chosen to get a tattoo on his hip before he’d get a tramp stamp-- not that he thinks it’s actually any classier, but it’s about where people are going to be looking when your pants are off. Or TADA, between navel and dick, except he’d have to shave off the happy trail, and he kind of likes that. A little manscaping now and then is all well and good but taking it all off isn’t very him.

About a month… He’s known Quentin for forty days, give or take a lost weekend. The mark was colorful before and it’s colorful now, but it was faded, when Quentin didn’t know him… Is it wishful thinking because he wants to have sex and the possibility of their being soulmates lets him bang guilt free? Or is it plausible?

Is it plausible because thinking about Quentin’s pain pains him? Because Quentin being away from Brakebills made him feel hungover like he hasn’t felt in a year? Because holding his hand feels right, and making him smile feels right, and kissing him feels so right that given the choice between kissing Quentin and having sex with anyone else, he’d take the kissing? Holding him close is everything, and he’d thought maybe it was just the height difference and the cute factor, how Quentin is exactly the kind of boy he’d most love to pin down and take apart, but is it more than just the way Q’s a bingo in like three directions on any given bingo card of all Eliot’s personal kinks and preferences? 

Your soulmate is supposed to feel like home, but Eliot has never had any kind of barometer for what home is supposed to feel like if you don’t hate your home. Is this it?

“Bambi, I have to go. I’m in the middle of a seduction.” He says, and hangs up.

“That was Margo.” Quentin’s brow furrows. He stares just to Eliot’s side a moment like he’s trying to picture her. “She’s… at Brakebills. You’re always-- you’re always with her.”

“You remember?” 

“It’s like… trying to remember someone else’s life, but I think… little impressions. When I try to think about how she looks, it makes my brain hurt. But… so what else is new? You… in her lap, but I can’t remember her face. I remember you in her lap, and wanting… I remember seeing you, I remember seeing you on the sign, El...” Quentin licks his lips. “Just… show me some magic. I haven’t been feeling very real, lately. You help.”

Eliot isn’t actually sure if Quentin-- seeming firmly in the ‘let’s make bad decisions to feel something’ phase of a depressive cycle-- means ‘show me some magic’ in a ‘and this is where the magic happens’ sexy type way, or if-- being Quentin-- he means it literally. 

Despite every nerve in his body screaming at him to take it as a come-on, he errs on the side of Quentin being a complete dork where all things magical are concerned. He floats a little figurine from the bookshelf over to Quentin’s hand. A plastic knight on horseback. 

Quentin, wide-eyed, plucks it from the air. “How?”

“Like I said, magician. And so are you. You can make magic, I can show you.”

“Show me.” He nods.

They forget about the sex, which is weird-- Eliot’s never forgotten about the sex before, with anyone. Especially not someone he’s wanted to fuck as badly as he wants to fuck Quentin, who might be his soulmate and who is also his friend, his second best friend, and he doesn’t remember their friendship, and it’s weird and it puts an ache in his chest. Instead they sit cross-legged in the center of the bed and Eliot teaches Quentin a few basic tuts, watches magic sputter to life between them. Watches Quentin sputter to life. They pass things back and forth telekinetically, Eliot teaches him a couple of first year party games with telekineses and illusion, things that are thrilling but manageable when the whole damn world has only just opened up before you.

“So… this soulmate thing.” Quentin says at last. “How do you know so much about it, if you always thought you didn’t have one?”

“Read about it. It’s not an exact science-- you still have to get to know people. There are signs… when you’re with them you’re better, when you’re apart you’re worse. Once it’s a real thing some people develop some extra ability. Casters who are stronger as a pair, or who excel at sex magic. A soulmate can have the power to heal with their presence, but they can also hurt you with their absence, or gain the power to compel you… there are drawbacks. But it’s someone who… however much you fuck up, they have to love you. So… I don’t know. I always wanted one. I always liked the idea of loving something so much it could destroy me. If you ever remember more about me, you might decide that explains a lot, by the way.”

Quentin laughs and takes his hand. “What kinds of things can being with your soulmate heal?”

“Not this.” Eliot reaches up with his free hand, brushes his fingertips across Quentin’s forehead. “I’m sorry. Fucked up brain shit is fucked up brain shit, with or without magic. If I could take that away, I would… I’m afraid I’m not good for much.”

“You’re good for me. Maybe this just puts things off a couple months instead of fixing what’s really wrong, but… I’m used to always being in pain, El.”

“So am I.” He admits. “It’s always there. Like a… a little shadow on my brain. Waiting to tell me I’m not good enough. I can shut it up, with a loud enough party, but then it comes back. It won’t go away… but you could still-- You still make me feel a little better. _You_ do make me feel better. Not in a magic healing way, just because… you were my friend, and you made me happy some of the time. And when I wasn't happy, I wasn't alone. You aren't alone.”

Quentin drags Eliot’s hand to rest over his chest-- not his heart, but his mark. “This could be you. Whatever I was before, and whatever I lost when they took magic out of my mind… you came for me, El. You didn’t think I could be your soulmate, you just came for me because I was your friend. You came to show me the way, to show me what magic is.”

“Take you back to Never Never Land? I don’t know if I ever can… expulsion is pretty serious. It would take something big to undo that ruling… I would, but I don't... I'm not going to give you false hope, it could all blow up in my face when I try. But I can still show you, magic. I can come see you, out in the real world.”

“I hope you will. Because you make it a little easier to live with the hurt. I don’t remember what we were like. But I remember seeing you, and wanting to know you. And I remember wishing I was the one holding you, when I saw you with someone else. So… maybe we’re not a fluke.”

“You shouldn’t remember me at all.” He rubs at Quentin’s temple. “You shouldn’t remember anything about Brakebills.”

He can’t heal Quentin’s depression, any more than he can heal whatever’s wrong with his own head… but could he heal the memory patch? He doesn’t have the skill or training to remove it, not without risking scrambling his brain, but can being with him bring those memories back? Healing your soulmate isn’t supposed to be something that happens right away, those powers grow with time. Forty days is like nothing, to be able to bring Quentin’s memory back just by his presence they would have to have been together forty _years_. 

Well, maybe not that long. But a lot longer than they’ve known each other.

If knowing each other barely more than a month gives them this kind of ability together… maybe that’s reason enough to petition for Quentin’s return to Brakebills, if only to prevent a more unchecked power. But it’s something. And if that doesn’t do anything, well… they figure it out. They heal what they can heal and they weather what they can’t.

For a while they’re silent, each contemplating about as much as he’s able, connected by touch. It’s Quentin who breaks the silence.

“So.” He bites his lip, fingertips sliding over Eliot’s wrist, up his forearm. “You did promise you were going to seduce me, right?”

“Baby.” Eliot grins, surging forward to press him down to the bed. “That I did.”


	2. Chapter 2

Once Eliot does have Quentin stripped to the waist, he can’t help himself, he really can’t, from tracing over the twin stars on his chest, pressing reverent kisses over each one, dizzy with the thought that it’s _him_ , it’s _his_ , the universe has corrected some mistake and named Quentin his soulmate-- allowed him to _earn_ being Quentin’s soulmate by finding him, by…

The question of whether he can ever bring him home to Brakebills again is a question for later. But… Eliot is ready to try. He hadn’t promised that, when they’d spoken before. They had been resigned to the thought that they couldn’t do anything about that, that Quentin would lose his memories of magic. He’d joked about seducing him instead, not alongside, he wasn’t going to risk everything he’d lose if he tried…

And then he’d seen him there and it was like there wasn’t any choice at all. It was Q, who deserved to have magic more than anyone Eliot could think of, and if the question was one of giving up his own for Quentin-- not that that was remotely the question-- he’d have done it. In the moment that he saw him curled up around his book in that coffee shop, he’d have given the world for him. 

This… this just makes the amount he’s missed him make sense.

“I wanna give you what you need.” He groans, runs his hands up Quentin’s side, up his arms, moving him where he wants him, just to be able to pin his wrists to his pillow, to kiss his lips, taste his mouth. 

He’s far enough gone on _Quentin_ to ignore the fact that tasting his mouth also means tasting stale coffee, and not like, the best coffee. He’s far enough gone that if he’d picked Quentin up at a restaurant that dealt exclusively in garlic and onions and fermented shark, he’d still be making out with him. Though he’d question his taste in restaurants. And he’d maybe gently suggest a mint.

He maybe wouldn’t, if it meant someone getting out of bed.

“Give it to me.” Quentin nods, as Eliot moves down to nibble at his throat. 

“I, uh…” Oh, pulling back is hard. Pulling back is the hardest thing he’s ever done. He wants to sink his teeth in, he wants to get Quentin’s pants off. “I need to know what you need. I mean, I need to know what you’re into, I need to know what you’re _not_ into. I need to know--”

“How careful you need to be with me?” Quentin raises an eyebrow, gives him a little smile. “You don’t.”

“I’m serious, Q, because I can get… I can be a _lot_.” He sits up, releasing him, keeping his hands on him.

“Don’t be scared. I’ve done this before. Well--”

“Quentin--”

“I’ve been pegged. Like, the amount I liked being pegged more than I liked doing anything else might have directly led to my breakup with the girl who introduced me to pegging.”

Eliot’s eyebrows climb. “Good to know.”

“I’ve never, you know. I’ve never gotten _serious_ with a guy, but I’m not some babe in the woods. I’ve fooled around. And I’m… if what you mean by ‘a lot’ is ‘kinky’, then… that’s not something you have to hold back for my sake.”

“I want to take this slow. Oh, not the sex, I’m rocking your world immediatement, baby. But maybe one kink at a time. Because what you think is a lot and what I think is a lot could be two very different things, and I don’t want any misunderstandings. We can talk safewords whenever you want, but until I’m very familiar with how you play, I stop at ‘stop’ and I stop at ‘no’. If that’s ever something you’re interested in doing, in the future, we’ll deal. But… you know. I, uh… I’m already operating at an advantage. And the whole power play is only fun when it’s a game.”

“Sure.” Quentin pushes himself up on his elbows, reaches for Eliot and cups his cheek. “I like games. A lot, in theory. A little less, in practice, but enough to know myself pretty well. If it bothers you that I don’t remember getting to know you the first time out…”

“It doesn’t thrill me but it’s not like you’ve lost years of your life. It’s a month, you’re… mostly the same you. At least in terms of sexual experience. I can handle that.”

“I wish I remembered more of you.” Quentin licks his lips. “But you could give me something new to remember. And I’m good with slow… but you don’t have to worry about being too rough with me, because I’m good with that.”

“Hard limits?”

Quentin shakes his head. “Um… I guess-- _no_ medical fetishes. And… for now, nothing with fluids? I mean, the normal amount of fluids that happen during sex is good, but-- you know. We can talk about excess fluids in the future?”

“For now, no excess fluids. We’ll talk when you wanna talk. Nothing medical.”

“And-- like, if, in the future, we went out to a club or something, I _might_ be able to wear a collar or something like that to-- so strangers would know I was with someone, or use one as part of a bondage set-up, but that’s not… like, it’s not my thing. What about you? Have you got hard limits?”

“Not many. I’d… do a lot, to get a partner off. I like to think of myself as a good sport. But if you ask me to hit you, it’s not going to be very hard, to start. Open palm, ass and thighs, _maybe_ other safe places, but that’s something… I’d want us to feel each other out before doing any more than that. I will not use a belt. I will not use a hairbrush or a wooden spoon. I will not use a cane. I will not choke you.”

“Oh, I’m good with that, I don’t-- I mean… it’s not like I don’t like to have my throat touched ever? But not… nothing tight? Um, an open palm is-- I like that okay.”

“Good, good, no problem. We’re on the same page. Um… humiliation. If you’re into it, I’ll make it work. I can talk about exposing you to other people, threaten to do something to embarrass you in public, tease you about wanting it too bad and, you know. How everyone’s going to know what a mess you are and how bad you need it. We might be able to work I’m sure there are names I could call you if you wanted that. I can be mean. But I’ve got lines. I won’t call you useless, I won’t call you worthless.”

He doesn’t really want to talk about his own hangups right now, or about how accustomed he is or isn’t to hearing his own brain whisper those words at him. It’s easier when he can behave as if it’s for a sub’s benefit, if there are limits to his meanness. It’s not so easy to admit that he just can’t feel very sexy, if he’s saying certain words and it has absolutely nothing to do with who he’s with. Still, if Quentin was into it, being humiliated, there’s plenty of room to work with the idea. He could call him a few names, talk dirty to him about putting him on display until he was a squirming _wreck_ , that could be fun. He can be _nasty_ if Quentin wants nasty. He just has to navigate a complicated mental landscape for it, that’s all, and all the little places where _that’s hot_ rubs up against the sharp corners of _feels bad_.

“Okay.” Quentin says, like it’s easy-- like he doesn’t even want any justification for Eliot’s limits. Maybe that’s fair-- Eliot certainly wouldn’t dream of asking him for an explanation on anything that’s a hard no, even a soft no. He’s just never considered the same consideration could be extended back to him, especially when he’s acting as a Dom.

He’s always put so much of his self esteem under the heading of what he could do to make others feel good-- considerate Dom, generous lover, perfect host, expert mixologist and impressive chef, above-average dance partner, eager and capable soulmark whisperer. A fast and devoted friend, to the few to get close. His love affairs may all have been of the fleeting variety, but despite the callous and cool prince-of-all-he-surveys facade, he’s always done his best to make those fleeting experiences good. He’s always…

He’s always just wanted people to want him.

Ideally for more than a couple of hours on a Friday night, but you know. You take what you can get.

“Tell me what you like.” He says, a soft command. “What you know you like.”

“I want you in control. I’m… I’m bad at-- decisions? Like, all decisions. I would really like to not make any decisions. I mean, I can-- I can stop you if I don’t like something, but I don’t want to decide. And you can move me how you want me or tie me up or anything, I’m really good with that, just… I need you to take control. As soon as possible would be good.”

“Aww. _Baby_ …” A grin spreads across Eliot’s face, he feels back in his element. Quentin just goes so red trying to talk about it… He’d been confident enough when stating his experience, his general readiness, he’d been fine on the whole when it came to talking limits, but when it comes to discussing his _desires_ , he’s a delightfully lost little lamb. 

That’s exactly how Eliot likes it. Clear enthusiasm for going to bed with him in the first place, but a complete willingness to cede control, an openness where kink is concerned that’s built on at least some foundation of experience. Not that he wouldn’t gladly be Quentin’s first, but it takes a weight off of his shoulders to know Quentin doesn’t need his hand held. 

Well, maybe he’d like some literal hand-holding, Eliot wants to hold his hands in a literal sense, but figuratively, figuratively they’re good, they can move forward. He knows what _not_ to do, and he has some hints about what direction to take it.

He undoes Quentin’s belt, and he contemplates wrapping it around his wrists, but he thinks he knows what will please him more. He lets the belt slither to the floor, and then he works Quentin’s jeans off, gives himself a moment to admire his legs. It’s a nice body… surprisingly fit. _Compact_ , but still lithe, just little. He’s into it. He loves towering over him, not just for domination purposes, but because Quentin would tuck so neatly into his side, because it’s so tempting to rest an elbow on his shoulder or put a hand on his head, to tell him how cute he is. So tempting to try and pick him up. He can just imagine the fuss he’d make over it… while it would be nice to get him down into subspace, see him blissed out and compliant, have him totally beneath his sway, the push-back is part of the attraction. Quentin might be anxious and directionless at times, might be soft and yielding, but he’s got his defiant side. Eliot likes that. 

Any time Quentin is in the mood to play the brat, well… Eliot will just have to _earn_ his mastery over him. For now, though, he thinks they want to move in the same direction.

He strips away his boxers next-- grey, baggy, depressing, and hiding too much he wants to get acquainted with. Eliot teases him, trailing fingertips over his hipbones, down the tops of his thighs, stroking a thumb over his balls, avoiding his swelling cock. Looks like a _very_ decent size, though perhaps it’s premature to judge… still, shaping up in an attractive direction, Eliot’s eager to put his mouth on him. He’s eager to do all kinds of things to him…

Starting with this one-- Quentin had expressly okayed bondage, and given him the green light to move him. 

“I need you to relax your body, close your eyes, and trust me. Can you do that?”

“Yes.” And his eyes fall closed, just at that, he takes a deep breath, lets a little tension go. 

He’s glad he’s done this before, because he wouldn’t want to try it for the first time while feeling so personally affected, but oh, Quentin absolutely needs this. Eliot drinks in the little gasp and the way he relaxes further, the little laugh as his head falls back and he lets the magic lift and support him. Lets Eliot bind him with-- essentially-- his will alone.

“Wow.” He squirms, and laughs again when he meets resistance, tugs against the telekinetic binding. “Um-- wow-- does this… how long does this last?”

“Oh, I can set it and forget it, baby. Once I have you just how I want you…” Eliot floats him out, so he’s no longer hovering just over the bed, turns him around this way and that-- mostly because he can, though he enjoys the view. And because Quentin’s delight in it is infectious, a balm for them both after the dullness of being separated-- in Quentin’s case from magic as well as from Eliot-- and the dullness of… well, existence. A dullness that he knows is going to come and go, and this won’t always be a solution, but right now it’s enough of one. 

He spreads Quentin’s legs, floats him _up_ where he can really get a look at him, the combination of which gets him a sharp little sound, almost a whine. 

“What’s the matter? Not embarrassed, are you? Feeling exposed?” He trails his hand up inner thighs, guiding him closer-- bites at one.

“Oh god…” Quentin gulps. 

“Oh, ‘Eliot’ is fine. Or, if you prefer… mm, ‘Sir’? ‘Sir’ has a nice ring. ‘Daddy’, if you’re into that. Not as big a fan of ‘Master’, but I just bet you could make it sound appealing.”

“You’re such… a self-important asshole.” Quentin laughs, eyes fluttering open. “I want to look at you.”

“Look away.” He spreads his arms. “I certainly am fantastic to look at.”

“You know what I mean.” He lifts his head, eyes Eliot with open hunger, looks at the vee of throat on display. But while Quentin is completely naked, Eliot is still-- well, what anyone else might consider fully dressed. A couple of buttons undone at his collar, waistcoat and tie gone. Dressed enough, though, and it gives him… it gives him that little edge of power, the fun kind. Especially when Quentin wants to see more. 

“Mm, we’ll see. I mean, you can always beg me.”

“You said you were going to give me what I wanted.”

“Did I? That doesn’t sound like me. I must have _meant_ I’d give you what you wanted _if_ you begged me.”

“El…” He gives another little squirm, and Eliot tightens his hold in response, enjoying the gasp, the whimper. Pulls his arms up over his head, crosses them at the wrist and keeps those held nice and firm before locking him in place so he can let his attention wander. “Oh-- El, c’mon, please…”

Eliot chuckles-- he’s mastered the exact low, sexy, very dominant chuckle for situations like these, and it comes easy. Comes easy because it’s practiced, comes easy because Quentin is so much fun to tease. 

“All things in good time. Do you like it, baby? _Magic_? Has anyone ever given you all the things _I_ can?”

Quentin doesn’t need to answer, considering he’s floating half over his bed, twisting against invisible bonds, thrilling to it every time he finds he can’t move some part of himself very far. His smile could light the room when he throws his full strength into testing it and barely moves at all, when he looks around and sees how high up he is with nothing but Eliot and magic to thank.

“This is so cool. And like… okay, super-- just, super hot. Like this is the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“Well… definitely in the running.” Eliot smiles, trailing fingers over his torso, watching the muscles twitch whenever he brushes a sensitive spot. Really, Quentin seems to be made up mostly of sensitive spots. “Maybe tied with getting into Brakebills to begin with.”

“You were the boy on the sign. That… happened to _me_ , I’m the person who… I stepped through something and saw _you_.”

“Q?”

“It’s fine, I’m good-- I’m just… the memories are feeling a little more real. Not that I remember much, but… I just feel…” His head falls back. 

“Do we need to take a rain check on the mind-blowing sex?” His brow furrows. “If this is all going to be too much…”

“No! No-- please, god, I don’t think I could… deal with this, if I was… This is good. Being, uh, up here, is good. Like… I can deal with this stuff as long as I’m, as long as you’ve got me.”

“Okay.” He kisses a knee. “I’ve got you. I’m going to do a little magic on you. A little more. I know it’s weird the first time but it’s okay. This is just going to help with prepping you…”

“Cool. Very cool.” He nods. And… of course he does.

Honestly, Eliot finds magic-- while weird the first time-- feels more comfortable than any non-magic prep steps he’s tried. It’s not like it’s a full on replacement for the hands-on, but it’s nicer. No worrying about hygiene-- well, _way_ less worrying, at least-- and it means the hands-on portion is more about foreplay than necessity, which he likes. Exploration is fun, finding someone you actually feel that connection with is amazing, even when fleeting, but nothing is more tiresome than focusing on things like whether you have enough lube, whether you’re being careful enough or too careful with a lover whose body you don’t know yet, when you could be focusing on sliding a couple fingers up against his prostate while you’re sucking on his balls, like… being able to kind of skip to that step with just a couple of spells is a big plus to learning all the sexy magic.

Which, yeah, he’s definitely teaching Quentin _actual_ sex magic, at some point. Just a couple minor rituals. Just because he _can_ , because whether or not he finds grounds for bringing Quentin back home to the cottage, they’re doing this again, and if he can never return Quentin to Brakebills-- Brakebills to Quentin?-- he can basically design the entire ‘teach Q magic’ curriculum. 

So sue him if he wants it to be sexy.

“Oh-- oh, _fuuuck_ …” Quentin moans, as Eliot slides two fingers in, easy, as Eliot’s mouth gets very acquainted with Quentin’s balls. Eliot hums, and Quentin whines, his hips buck as far as the magic holding him allows-- which is not very. “ _Fuck_!”

“As you wish.” Eliot gives him a little prostate stimulation, a few very wet and messy kisses up and down his inner thighs, before he withdraws and physically moves Quentin’s floating form lower, closer to waist height than mouth-height now. He can fine tune once he’s gotten himself ready.

Quentin lifts his head to watch, as Eliot undoes his fly, untucks the front of his shirt, gets it enough out of the way. Pushes down the waistband of his underwear to free his own cock. He knows he impresses-- he usually does. It’s still incredibly gratifying, to see the way Quentin looks at him when h whips it out.

“Shit, really?” He moans, squeezes his eyes closed and tries to just _breathe_. “I’m going to be very upset if this is all a dream or, like, a psychotic break. I mean this was too good to be true at ‘magic is real’ and pushing things with ‘super hot guy tracks me down to tell me magic is real and also maybe we’re soulmates and he’s down to fuck’, but there’s no way your dick’s that big, I’m not that lucky.”

“Look at it this way, there’s got to be _something_ to balance out all the bad shit in life. In this case, my enormous dick. But I can pinch you if you’re worried it’s a dream.”

“If this is a dream I’m not waking up before I get to suck it.”

Eliot laughs, he can’t help it. 

“I mean it, El, fuck… _Sir_ , please, please, I gotta… I gotta put my mouth on that thing, it’s incredible. I need you to fuck my mouth, I need it. If this is what I get to make up for everything wrong with my life, then I should get to suck it, I really want to. Eliot, _please_ , I’m begging you, I’m begging, I want it so bad, I need it. I don’t need anything else, I just need your cock, oh, _please_.”

“Oh, baby, of course you can…” He coos, all sweetness-- at least, for now. “Q, you can have anything you want, if you ask for it pretty enough. And I want to give it to you. I really do…”

He’s never going to get tired of the way Quentin shivers for him, the way Quentin needs him. He moves to kneel on the bed up near Quentin’s head, adjusts his floating height by hand until Quentin can crane his neck to reach, which he does far too eagerly.

Like, he _immediately_ chokes himself on it.

“ _Jesus_ , Q, I mean, _fuck_!” Eliot pulls him off with a hand wound in his hair, which just has him moaning all over again.

“ _Please_!” He strains against Eliot’s hold, laps desperately at the head of his cock. “Oh-- _don’t stop_ , just let me, let me…”

Eliot gives him a little slack and Quentin takes it. No finesse, but a lot of enthusiasm-- just as well, because Eliot’s not remotely ready to come, not like this, he still has so much more to give Quentin before he can do that. If Quentin was actually focused on getting him off instead of just being focused on getting him shoved down his throat, he’d be a goner. Quentin pulls against the hand in his hair, heedless, moans around Eliot as Eliot slowly allows him more, lets him bob his head a little more freely only to discover that Q really is an unstoppable force where sucking dick is concerned.

First, if he holds onto his hair too tightly, it just turns him on, which makes him eager to go hard. Second, if he eases up on his hair because he doesn’t actually want to pull any of it _out_ , Q takes it as a sign that he can pull against it hard again in order to get more of him. Third, he’s so desperate for all of him, he really is, it’s like he’s not satisfied until he’s gagging on it, the sound wet and ragged-guttural from the back of his throat, but once that happens…

The whole time they’ve been at it, Quentin has been submissive. Hell, the whole time he’s known him, there’s been a touch of it, even at his most defiant it had been lurking. Sometimes anxious for Eliot to take charge, sometimes bratty and thrilled to push back, challenging Eliot to put him in his place or to impress him into giving himself up willingly. The vibe has always been there between them even when doing anything about it had seemed off the table, but this?

This is Q snapped fully into submission, looking up adoringly through his lashes as he drools around Eliot’s cock, as he whines for more and chokes on it when he gets it or takes it, as his own hips jerk against empty air when Eliot gives his hair a sharp tug.

And no wonder he keeps it long, if he’s into having it played with… it was tempting even before Eliot knew the power it would give him. 

He pulls him off completely before he can give in and take too much pleasure out of that mouth, and Quentin gapes up at him, his mouth still hanging open, drool down his chin and eyes glassy and confused.

“Shh, shh… baby, you’re so good for me.” He promises, presses two fingers down against Quentin’s tongue-- immediately he latches onto having something new to suck. “That’s right, that’s my good boy. That’s my good boy… you just want to make me happy, don’t you?”

Quentin moans an eager affirmative. 

There’s an open connection between them, like a flowing of energy, like something Eliot’s never felt before. He’s not sure he’s ever put someone into subspace with such ease, like it’s natural for them… he doesn’t think he could sustain this for too long a stretch. The responsibility is immense, and the emotions are powerful, and Quentin… well, he’d miss all the other pieces of Quentin, if he let him shut his brain off and relax this fully _all_ the time. It’s incredible, though, and it makes him feel incredible, as if the facade he’s worked so hard to build is real, and all that confidence is rightfully his. 

This is… this is really some whole other soulmate trip.

“You feel like finding a home for the first time.” He whispers. It’s not what he’d meant to say. It’s not wrong.

That… that’s why the TADA, beneath the playing card. It’s the sign from the cottage, the only real home Eliot has ever found, the only place he’s ever felt like he could maybe fit. Quentin completes that sense of home, belonging. Seeing the letters up in their rightful place is a welcome home every time he sees them, whether they’re greeting him after a day out in the rest of the world or first thing in the morning, he associates that sign with being home and being _right_ , and being…

Enough. Good enough.

That’s the way he feels when Quentin looks at him. 

Like coming home to a place where what he is is good enough.

“You’re so beautiful, Q… everything about you is so beautiful. I-- I want all the beautiful parts of you to be mine. And all the ugliest parts of you, those are mine, too, and I… will never, ever let anyone else touch them, if you give them to me they’ll be _mine_ , I’ll make them sparkle for you. Oh, baby, I won’t let you hurt, not… I’ll take such good care of you. When the world hurts you, you call for _me_ , and I’ll make it hurt so good instead, we’re going to forget the big, bad world. All there is in all the universe is me, and you. Me, taking care of you. Because you’re so good for me, Q, you _deserve_ it. You deserve it, baby, so sweet, so pretty… and you work so hard, I _know_ … I know you do. Oh, and you’ll work so hard for _me_. I’m going to reward you for it…”

He’s got him really floating now-- figuratively, as well as literally, got him sunk down into the saltwater swimming pool of subspace, just buoyed enough to keep breathing, adrift and deliciously helpless. He slides his fingers free of Quentin’s mouth and strokes gently over his front, sternum to belly in long, smooth passes. 

“Beautiful boy…” He sighs, just drinking him in, just enjoying the absolute trust, the relaxation, the bliss. The adoration that shines in his eyes. Oh, and he adores him right back… he’s been waiting to adore him. He’s been waiting his whole life to adore someone like this. He’s tried, and lost hope, and chased shadow imitations, and written himself out of the running and flirted anyway because he’s used to the hurt and he’d rather hurt wanting something beautiful than not hurt wanting ordinary things. And, to be fair, he was always going to hurt. But he and Q, they fit.

And Q, he squirms just a little, to push up into Eliot’s hand, his bitten smile soft. He mumbles something in quiet, love-drunk tones as he does, itching to be closer but free from urgent anxiety.

“Speak up, if you want me to give you anything.” Eliot taps a finger against his nose. 

“Said ‘your highness’.” Quentin still mumbles, but it’s clearer this time, a little louder. 

“Did you?” He grins. “We’ll talk about the fantasy behind that one later, okay. I like it, I like it.”

No great mystery, maybe. But he can manage a little roleplaying if that’s what it takes. Or, he’ll learn to manage it, even if it feels silly. Or maybe it’ll just be their thing, instead of Sir or Master or whatever. He scoots back, bends double to be able to lean down over Quentin, to kiss a path up from the mark on his chest to his shoulder, to his throat… 

He stays there, his face against Quentin’s neck, keeps himself tucked down there so Quentin won’t see him waver, won’t see his strength give out. The one thing he needs to be right now is strong for Quentin-- as a Dom, as his soulmate, as the one who _has_ magic, whose mind hasn’t been ripped apart. Eliot has everything right now, Quentin’s been lucky to avoid a full-on downward spiral, and he needs to shape back up fast out of whatever this dip is, he needs to be all the things Quentin needs of him. 

It’s just such a tremendously overwhelming thing to have him now, to be so close to him, to touch him, be allowed him. It’s just so much, after how it felt when he was just… gone from Brakebills, and after how he felt so rushed and unfocused when he’d been trying to make a plan to find him. He hadn’t even really had much of a follow-through planned when he’d begun. He’d only known and been unable to fully articulate that he needed to see him, talk to him, know he was fine. And then everything had happened so fast when he did, and now here he is, with no real idea what he’s doing, only that Quentin has placed such absolute trust in him. But he doesn’t know how to bring him home, not really. All he has is wishful thinking and half-formed ideas. He doesn’t know how to keep him safe. He doesn’t know how to teach him, not really, he doesn’t really believe he’s smart enough, not if he spends two seconds thinking about it. When they hit the point where what Quentin needs to learn outstrips what Eliot can do? And it will… Eliot has a lot of raw power, not that he does so much with it most of the time, but he’s no scholar… he’s an ex-gifted and talented child turned party monster on the verge of a nervous burnout.

What if he can’t take care of him?

What if he fails him?

“Oh, Q…” He whispers, voice watery, he traces fingertips over Quentin’s face without coming out of hiding. Feels the drying tears and saliva, Quentin a mess. But a mess who hums and sighs happily and presses into his touch. “Oh, my sweet little Quentin, what am I going to do with you?”

A long moment passes, before Quentin rubs his cheek against Eliot’s head and draws in a deep breath. 

“Fuck me?” He asks, in a lovely dreamy-distant voice. “ _Please_?”

“Yeah, baby. I will. Of course.” He snorts. “Give me a minute. Mm, give me a minute, I’m just not done yet, I’m not done kissing my baby all over yet. You can be patient, can’t you? Oh, I know you can, you’re such a good boy, I know you will. Just like you’ve been waiting, so well-behaved. You always listen, don’t you, when I’m talking? Yes, that’s right… you’re always such a good boy.”

He can pull it together. He can pull it together for Q, he has to. He can find a way of taking care of him… he can find a way of restoring him to what he ought to be, if not to everything he ought to have. He just needs to be okay right now, this is no time to fall apart. Not while he has a boy stripped bare and suspended.

He takes some time, kisses a meandering path from neck to shoulder, up along a bicep, hand sliding up further still. He tangles their fingers together before kissing his way back down, past shoulder to chest, down past soulmark to tease at a nipple, tries to distract himself with the physical. The physical, after all, his his forte. And doing this, he knows he can make Quentin feel good, that’s all he needs. He needs to know he’s making him feel good. 

And his sweet little Q is so unrestrained, when it comes to letting him know. The noises he makes, not so loud now but constant, the low moans and breathy gasps and sighs all the praise Eliot needs. 

Not that he’d say no to a little verbal worship, sometime in the future. He always likes to hear how wonderful he is. But it’s not what he needs-- he’s enjoying reducing Quentin to wordless little sounds. _Desperate_ ones. 

Enough exploring and he feels ready, ready to really take control again and give Q what he needs. Q, his home… he’ll figure it out, how to bring him home again, how to make a home with him. He’ll figure it out, he doesn’t have to figure it out today. Even this week. He has an entire future in which to figure out what he and Quentin will do about this. He feels for once like what he has _is_ a future, even if he doesn’t know what he’s doing with it. 

A future… with the soulmate destiny gave him and the one he made for himself, and if he can have two people who he means something to, he can have anything. 

He moves to stand by the bed, to move Quentin to him. Gets himself slicked and slides just the head of his cock past that ring of muscle, feels the way Quentin takes him, relaxed and ready. 

“Oh god…” He whines, all but limp in his bonds. His head falls back, the line of his throat beautiful. Eliot watches the bobbing of his adam’s apple on a hard gulp. 

“Is that good?”

“ _Yeah_.”

“Mm, is that thick enough for you? Does it feel good like you dreamed about?”

“Uh-huh.” He nods, swallows hard again. Rolls his hips in search of more.

Eliot chuckles, grabs onto Quentin’s hips to hold him still now, physically as well as magically. A few shallow thrusts as he admires the way his hands look wrapped around Quentin. They do form a beautiful picture… each of them alone makes for a fine balance of delicacy and strength, each of them alone could be lovely. Together?

Oh yes, he likes the aesthetics together very much. Watching himself disappear into that waiting and willing hole. The way his hands look on Quentin’s nice tight body, spread wide. Framing him very nicely, that cock… he likes an attractive cock-- it’s one of the joys of having a man spread out on his back while you fuck into him, in Eliot’s far from humble opinion. Getting to watch it bounce, or twitch, getting to watch a guy blow his load all over his own chest while you’re balls deep in him. Sure, getting to play with it, but you can give a reach-around in any position, the visual is part of it. And Quentin’s is so _nice_. Just the right size for Eliot’s hand, cut, that attractive slight curve and the shades of pink it flushes… everything about him is just…

_Perfect_.

Maybe the next time he’d get Quentin riding him, really… really have a view to die for. But he likes it like this, he likes doing the work. Likes feeling his own body moving against someone else’s, likes to put some power into it. Likes to really give his all, likes to play it rough and dirty.

Or slow and steady-- with Quentin, now, he starts it off slow and steady, teasing them both with it, thrilling to the build. 

“Your body feels so good, baby…” He sighs, finally bringing his hips flush against Quentin’s ass, finally… finally deep inside him, all the way inside him. “Q, baby, you’re doing so good, love how you take me.”

“El…” 

Oh, and he barely even says it, it comes squeaking out of him like he doesn’t even mean to… barely different from the little sounds that aren’t Eliot’s name, that even a gentle thrust seems to punch out of him.

He’s _delicious_. 

Not that Eliot can just go easy on him…

“I’m sorry, I think I misheard you.” He forces himself to hold still. He wants to pull back, push in slow again or maybe just slam home until neither of them can take anymore… but not until Quentin _behaves_ , that’s the name of the game. 

“ _Please_ …” Quentin lifts his head, looks up at Eliot with those wide-blown pupils. As if his usual dark brown puppy dog eyes aren’t dangerous enough… like this, he’s deadly.

“ _Better_.” Eliot allows, because he’s not sure Quentin could manage more, in this moment. He gives him another deep, slow thrust, another, builds a steady rhythm back up. Watches the way he reacts, the way he rolls his body against the power that binds him just to move with Eliot, the way he can’t keep holding his head up, how he sounds…

The way his cock leaks precome, how it smears glistening on his belly… 

Eliot speeds up, grips Quentin’s hips a little harder, pulls him back hard onto his cock. Just another bonus of floating him like this, he can move him so _freely_ , and Quentin is enjoying the ride. And Eliot lets loose and enjoys it with him, lets his own unrestrained moaning join Quentin’s. Wonders how far he can take him, just like this… just like this. 

It’s hard to put into words the difference Quentin makes, being his soulmate. It’s not that it makes the sex physically better than Eliot thinks it would be with anyone kink-compatible. He’s been having good sex. A lot of factors go into having a good first time with a new partner, and most of them aren’t ‘that’s my literal soulmate’. But… it means something to him. It means something to him and it adds something undefinable. A pleasure that’s not about his body, sweet as it is, not about the way he moans or the way they fit or the kink-- though it feels closest to that. It’s a tug at the core of him, keeping them connected, and it’s not physical but it may as well be. 

He wants to ask Quentin if he feels it, if he’s just crazy or if it’s a real thing they can both feel, but Quentin is way past answering and Eliot’s beginning to think he might be past asking. He might be past everything that isn’t Quentin’s name, some babbled praise for how good, how sweet, how hot, words that do come tumbling out unbidden, unstructured. 

And then he takes Quentin all the way there, feels the throes of his orgasm as he watches him, watches him come untouched, the way his back arches, the spatter of his come across chest and belly, the way his head tilts back. And the sound he makes, the sweetest little cry and then the softer sound of his heavy breathing, the little moans… the whine, when Eliot pulls out-- he can’t resist watching, as he does, watching the way Quentin twitches at the loss of him, watching his own release drip from him. 

He gets them both cleaned up with a handful of tissues, moving Quentin down to the bed before releasing the telekinetic hold on him. 

Which is a little bit the wrong move, Quentin starts sucking in rapid breaths, casting around for… something, but Eliot can’t understand what, eyes rolling around the room wild, his heart hammering under Eliot’s hand as Eliot joins him on the bed.

“Hey, hey, baby… Quentin, shh, I’m right here.” He promises, the one hand on Quentin’s chest, the other in his hair. “I’m right here. You’re safe.”

Q’s eyes lock onto his, he all but throws himself at Eliot’s chest, and so Eliot rolls them to lie down, Quentin resting against him and shivering in his arms.

“Baby?” He strokes his back now. “Talk to me, Q.”

“Dunno.” He keeps his face hidden down against Eliot’s chest, but now when he breathes in, it’s deliberate and deep, not a trace of panic. 

“Next time-- if you’ll allow me a next time, that is-- we’ll talk about releasing you and we’ll do it slow.” He promises. He should have realized-- if it was ropes, or even cuffs, Quentin would be able to see Eliot reach for him, undo everything by hand. Dispelling magic is a shock. He should have realized… but he’s never had someone react badly before, he’s never put a casual play partner deep into subspace. 

“Allow?” Quentin sniffs. “Y-yeah, El… of course?”

“Okay. I’ll be careful with you next time.” He kisses the top of his head, finds Quentin’s hand so that he can bring it up to his lips. With telekinetic bondage, and with Quentin remaining horizontal, he doesn’t have to worry about circulation, but he massages at his hands and wrists anyway, because he likes the ritual of it. And he likes the way Quentin seems to relax a little further, when the massage comes with little kisses to each fingertip, to the heel of his hand, his knuckles, the inside of his wrist.

He takes great care, first with one side and then the other, and when Quentin gets too shivery, he gets the covers wrapped around him.

“Baby? You need something?”

Quentin shakes his head. “Stay?”

“Yeah. I’m going to get you a glass of water first. Okay?”

He nods, and lets himself be rolled gently off of Eliot, to rest against his pillow. Eliot undresses while he’s up, smiling at Quentin’s eyes on him. 

“It means you’re my home.” He says softly, when he returns to Quentin’s bed and Quentin’s hand goes straight to the small of his back and the mark there. “That mark means you’re my home.”

"And you're my way there." Quentin brings Eliot's hand to his chest, and Eliot melts into him.

"I guess we'll never know who I stole you from."

"You didn't steal me from anybody." He laughs. "I think you just mean more to me the second time around. You are still cuddly, though."


End file.
